


Tumblr Mini-Fics #14: The "I'm Sad Because You've Never Written..." Fic Fest

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Tumblr Mini-Fics [15]
Category: British Actor RPF, Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autofellatio, Bodyswap, Daddy Kink, Fawnlock, Fucking Machines, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In August of 2014, I passed 2500 followers on Tumblr, and to celebrate I threw a fic fest. I asked my followers to send me prompts formatted thusly: “I’m sad because you’ve never written _____.” [And then fill in with a pairing and a kink or trope.] I then set about rectifying these absences. </p><p>Here you’ll find one Hannigram fic, one Hiddlebatch fic, and four Johnlock fics. (And one Fawnlock!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hannigram - Daddy Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sad because you’ve never written Hannigram daddy kink.”

“Hannigram daddy kink,” like “ATM machine,” is one of those phrases that we all say despite knowing that it contains an obvious redundancy.

This little blurb was directly inspired by [this Tumblr post](http://hannigram.com/post/92442902318/imagine-mads-being-on-top-of-you-his-grey-chest-hair).

 

 ***

Will really needed to get his hand between his own body and Hannibal’s, so he could jerk himself off and have any hope of coming. Hannibal knew this, but was entirely uninterested in making it happen. He preferred to crush Will beneath him, always pressing every possible inch of their bodies together while rocking ferociously into him. His thick thatch of salt-and-pepper chest hair rubbed against Will’s smooth skin, and below that, his slight paunch pressed down against Will’s own belly. Occasionally, it would catch just the slightest bit on the head of his cock, but those morsels of friction were not nearly enough to make Will come.

“You’re making Daddy so happy,” Hannibal groaned softly in Will’s ear.

Well, that was great, Will thought, but it wasn’t getting his hand any closer to being able to touch his dick.

 

 

 


	2. Hiddlebatch - the riding crop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sad because you’ve never written about either the fact that Tom Hiddleston sent Benedict Cumberbatch the riding crop or about Benedict liking to be the dominant one.”

“I sent you something in the post,” Tom had said mischievously on the phone.

“What for? You only live in Marylebone. And anyway, I won’t get anything you sent until next month. I’m here in Morocco until the third.”

“I mean I posted it to you in Morocco. It’s just something to make you think of me.” And he had laughed.

Benedict returned to his hotel in the evening about two weeks later, and the desk clerk caught him as he was breezing by on the way up to his room. There was a package for him. The clerk handed over a box, not quite the length of his arm and oddly slender. Benedict remembered the tone of Tom’s voice, snatched up the parcel, and hurried away with it.

He had no knife handy, and the hotel door had a card, not a key. Eventually he came up with some fingernail clippers that he could use to cut the tape. Beneath the paper wrapping was an elegant, black-lacquered box. Benedict slid the cover aside to reveal a riding crop, 75 centimetres of sturdy black leather topped with a wide, supple popper.

He grabbed his mobile and rang Tom immediately.

“Are you kidding me?” he snapped. “You couldn’t wait until I got home to give me this? I’ve got to go through airport security with this thing!”

Tom laughed, low and rumbling. “Yes, it was quite naughty of me to send it to you. I suppose when you return, I’ll have to be punished for my indiscretion.”

Benedict said nothing. He was more or less unable to unclench his jaw at the moment. After several seconds, Tom went on: “If only you had something at your disposal with which to administer such a–”

“Yes, I’ve grasped what you’re getting at! It sounds like the best way to punish you right now would be to resolve _not_ to thrash you senseless with this thing.”

“You could decide to do that. Or, between now and the third, you could think about all the lovely red marks you could leave on my skin with it. All the noises I would make when I felt the sting of it. The way you would look with it in your hand. The way you’d _feel_ with it in your hand.”

Benedict picked up the crop, gripped it tightly, felt the leather against his palm. He snapped it experimentally against his own thigh.

“I’ll, er, ring you later about this,” he said.

“If you’re about to do what I think you’re about to do, I wish you’d stay on the line with me for it.”

Benedict took the phone from his ear, looked at it contemplatively for a moment, and then sat on the bed and pressed the “Speaker” button.

 

 

 

 


	3. Johnlock - edging/fucking machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sad because you’ve never written about a fucking machine.”  
> “I’m sad because you’ve never written John mercilessly edging Sherlock.”

What John had promised to show Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor in the sitting room. The item began with a short bench, upholstered in leather and of a suitable length for a person to rest their chest and belly on, when holding themselves up on their own hands and knees became untenable. At one end of the bench was a cluster of moving parts: a belt drive connected the motor to a thrusting arm, and at the end of the arm was the item that would prevent one from mistaking this machine for some random piece of gym equipment: a ten-inch, fire-engine-red dildo.

“What is this,” Sherlock said.

John put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. “It’s a machine that fucks you.”

“Let me rephrase my question: _Why_ is this? I already have you to fuck me.”

“Yes, but when you’re trapped in a cock ring, and this machine has been fucking you for forty-five minutes, and you’ve spent thirty-two of those minutes begging so prettily for release, this machine won’t give in and let you because its knees hurt. It will just continue to fuck you.”

“Ah.”

“In fact, forty-five minutes would be nothing to this machine, really. You might be at its mercy for hours. Your cock would be as red as that one there, but it would be leaking, and throbbing…to no avail, of course. Meanwhile, the rest of you would be shaking and sweating, exhausted from being on the verge of orgasm for so long, but unwilling to give up, just in case relief might come in the next few seconds. But it wouldn’t, not until I decided to let it happen. I’d just be sitting right there, in my chair, and you could watch me while I watched you. I’d be relaxed and entertained, and you’d be helpless and trembling and tormented.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock whispered, then cleared his throat and continued, “Well, I say interesting. Diabolical.”

John smiled. “Isn’t it just. That’s why I picked red for the dildo.”

 

 

 


	4. Johnlock - Fawnlock/autofellatio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sad because you’ve never written Fawnlock.”  
> “I’m sad because you’ve never written Johnlock autofellatio.”

Fawnlock’s enthusiasm for what he termed “human things” was unpredictable. Some days, he seemed determined to adopt as many human customs and mannerisms as possible, probably because John had promised to take him to London “when he was ready.” But other times, he adhered defiantly to his own ways – today, for example, he was sitting on the sofa, across from John’s chair, bathing himself with his tongue while John was trying to read the paper.

The process of washing himself was time-consuming; Fawnlock made several patient strokes over each swath of skin, whether bare or furred. John was unable to concentrate on the paper when he could easily glance to one side of it and watch Fawnlock’s long pink tongue as it worked. It was one thing when he cleaned his arms, or ran freshly-licked hands through his dark curls, but when he bent down to lap at the insides of his thighs, John had to clear his throat to cover his gasp. He’d had no idea that Fawnlock was so…flexible.

Fawnlock paid no heed to John’s noise, and made his unhurried way up, until he was blithely cleaning his own penis. His tongue worked wetly from the furry base to the smooth pink tip, and he made little rumbling noises as he went along, lingering far longer on this part of himself than he had on his limbs. It was just about too much for John, who had resolved not to let his curiosity about the creature get the better of him – Fawnlock was his friend, his charge perhaps, but not his concubine.

“You know,” John said, “if you care to get clean, you can have a bath in my tub.”

Fawnlock paused in his task and looked at John. “Bath is a human thing,” he remarked.

“Indeed. Baths are what people take in London.”

This made Fawnlock’s eyebrows go up. “How do you bath?”

John folded the paper and put it on the table. “Follow me, and I’ll show you.”

It took some coaxing to get Fawnlock into the water, but once in, he had a grand time. By the end of it, his splashing had put as much water outside the tub as was inside, and he could not stop giggling when John showed him how to use a soapy flannel on his skin; it did not seem to matter whether John was rubbing him with it, or whether he was imitating the action himself, it was all delightful and hilarious to him. Even when he sniffed at the bubbles, and got suds up his nose, he could not be discouraged; after sneezing, he adopted a stillness and a thousand-yard stare, which John recognized as his stance whenever he was storing away newly-gained knowledge for possible future use.

John helped him get dry, fluffing up his hair with the towel, then supervising to make sure he dried himself sufficiently all over. He was not having a wet Fawnlock getting everything in the cabin sudsy and damp.

Afterward, John settled in with his paper again, and Fawnlock went to the refrigerator for a carrot, which he ate sitting on the couch, across from John again. The crunching was slightly annoying, but at least he wasn’t being a proper visual distraction.

But then, when he finished, Fawnlock leaned down and began to do it again, licking his penis methodically, just as he had before. He went on for even longer this time, until the little thing was half-erect. Soon John noticed, and grunted with exasperation, at which point Fawnlock looked up to see what he was upset about.

“You weren’t even doing that to get clean, were you?” John sighed. “You were just doing it because you could.”

Fawnlock did not understand John’s implication, and so only shrugged at him.

 

 

 


	5. Johnlock - bodyswap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm sad because you've never written Johnlock body swap where they discover a secret freakish something about the other’s anatomy.”  
> “I'm sad because you've never written about John/Sherlock discovering that quitting smoking really can result in a 1cm gain in the length of one's erection.”

It was the most frantic fuck they’d ever had. Three weeks they’d gone without it, while they’d searched for someone to reverse their accidental bodyswap. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had been curious about what sex with John would be like while he was in John’s body, but John refused him, on the grounds that he could not stomach the thought of trying to shag properly while looking himself in the face.

Three weeks was not a ridiculous amount of time to go without sex, but for that entire time they’d both been consumed with the fear that they would be trapped in each other’s bodies forever, and would eventually have to come to terms with it. Acquiring a reversal had resulted in such euphoric relief, that as soon as they were back in the flat, they could not wait a moment longer, and fell to the floor in each others’ grasp, pulling at just enough clothing to facilitate penetration.

John yowled beneath Sherlock, uncharacteristically – he was often noisy when Sherlock pounded him, but never _this_ noisy. “Ungh, what the…h _ngh_ , Jesus…”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock said, between his shallow gasps and pants.

“Yeah, God yeah, you’re… _uhn_ , it’s like you’re hitting something up inside me that’s never been hit before.”

Sherlock ceased thrusting immediately, made a contemplative noise, and pulled unceremoniously out of John. Ignoring the string of venomous curses that followed him, he made his way over to the dining table, where he picked up a ruler and laid it against his penis. “Well spotted, John,” he said. “My erection is one centimeter longer than it was before we swapped bodies. I’ll have to make a note.” He disappeared entirely from John’s view as he went into the bedroom.

“Come back here and finish fucking me, you twat!”

“I’ll be just a moment!” Sherlock called back. “I keep the data on myself secured in here!”

With a resigned grunt, John straightened up and arranged his clothing. If Sherlock thought this situation was recoverable, he could think again.

Whilst John was contemplating getting in the shower, Sherlock returned, unconcerned that John was now fully-dressed and standing. “I think I know why this happened! You quit smoking when you were in my body.”

“So?”

“So, I read a study several years ago that quitting smoking can result in a marginal growth in penis size. I suppose I have to thank you, John. You were thinking of my health, of course, but also apparently of my own capacity to please you sexually.”

John looked up, as if to summon the sympathy of some higher being. “Oh good, I’m glad that pleasing me sexually is a priority for you,” he said, and strode off to the bathroom.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked the lovely person who requested the smoking thing to send me the relevant study, and it turns out it's not quite accurate to say what was said in the fic. If you'd like to read the article that inspired it, you can go here and get the straight dope: http://guardianlv.com/2013/09/penis-shrinkage-through-smoking/


	6. Johnlock - teacher/student

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sad because you’ve never written Johnlock teacher/student.”

Students milled about at the reference end of the library, plucking almanacs and fact-books from the shelves, making notes, aimlessly discussing the correct arrangements of abstract numbers within their reports.

All the others worked in pairs, but the class had an odd number of students, the odd one being Sherlock Holmes. Any other professor would have shunted Sherlock into a group of three, but Professor Watson thought very highly of him, much to everyone else’s bafflement, and allowed Sherlock to work alone.

The professor walked slowly but purposefully amongst the occupied library tables, ready to answer any questions the students happened to have as he passed by them. Sherlock sat away from the others, at his own table. When Professor Watson approached Sherlock, he decided to have a seat across from him. A chill skittered across Sherlock’s skin; he could smell Professor Watson’s aftershave.

“You look a little lost, Holmes,” he remarked.

Sherlock whined, “This shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“I’ve noticed you getting frustrated lately.” (Professor Watson _noticed_ him?) “I think it’s because you’re trying to get an answer without having gone through the process that you always used in the past. You don’t need to leap immediately to a solution, or a conclusion, just to impress me.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

“Let’s take a look at what you’ve got so far.” The professor gently slid the first typed draft of Sherlock’s paper from beneath his hand, in order to examine it. After reading it carefully, he said, “I can tell from this section, here, that you do not have a full understanding of the relevant social welfare reforms, and without that understanding, you’ll have no foundation to build your conclusions on. Let me use an analogy. Are you familiar with the term ‘priming the pump?’”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but he managed to keep his mouth a straight line. “I’m afraid not.”

“When you have something like a spritzer bottle, you always have to squeeze the lever or push the button a few times before any water actually comes out, yes? That’s called ‘priming the pump’…” The professor gave no indication that this phrase could possibly be construed as sexual, but all Sherlock could think was, _He’s talking dirty to me_. Of all the people to spring this phrase on him, why did it have to be Professor Watson? Sherlock could feel sweat dampening his shirt under his arms and at the small of his back.

“…the purpose of these reforms was to ‘prime the pump’ of the economy. It was understood that the initial efforts would not produce a significant result, but they were necessary to stimulate…” _Oh good God, he’d not only said “priming the pump” again, he’d also said “stimulate.”_ Sherlock bit the inside of his lip, and dedicated his entire intellect to wondering if Professor Watson could detect the effort he was making to keep a straight face and hold eye contact. This left him no cerebral resources to devote to actually processing anything that the professor was saying.

“Does that clarify things, Holmes?” Watson said finally.

Sherlock gave the slightest of nods, fearful that anything more vigorous would knock loose a nervous giggle. “Yes, sir, thank you,” he squeaked.

 

 

 


End file.
